Fluff and Stuff

Here I sit in a pile of junk,

no one to talk with as I lay on my bunk,

thinking of people stinking,

with their high and mighty thought,

no different from me,

no, not special at all.

But I remember a day,

when I was King of the Hill,

my chest puffy

with boldness so rare,

as I fought off the attackers

to take away my throne,

as I huffed and puffed

to hold onto my own.

And in a flash the boy stumbled,

fell to the bottom and never got up,

he was the last of the hoard that fell away,

but here I sit in all this junk,

remembering that one who fell,

and buried six feet under,

that much closer to hell.

I keep saying it was an accident,

but my greed to hold on was vast,

and not about to give way for anything.

My thoughts are fluffy like a cloud gone crazy,

my feelings are swollen, almost puffy,

that I cannot breath at times.

It was my fault.

Hell,

this whole poem is nothing but fluff,

and other twisted things and stuff.

Hence, I walk away,

not giving a damn,

it was the best that I could do,

but never let it be said,

that all stuff is fluff.

George Carlin might get upset.